In Evening Air (Another Cento)

In my free time, between writing papers for Flannery O'Connor and English Romanticism and doing P90x, I tried my hand a another cento--I think I like this one the best! The lines are from a long hidden gem (at least for me) in Theodore Roethke (pronounced RET-keh).

In Evening Air

Under a southern wind,
Hidden in my own heart,
My lady laughs, delighting in what is.

A suddenness of trees
Turned by revolving air:
You will find no comfort here.
All waters waver, and all fires fail.

The dark heart of some ancient thing
And the sheen of ravens:
Flutter of wings and seeds quaking --
Such stretchings of the spirit make no sound
(I'm martyr to a motion not my own).

Once I transcended time
And came to a dark ravine --
Our small souls hid from their small agonies.

I receive! I have been received!
What speech abides?
How high is have?
The dew draws near
And loves the living ground.

What do they tell us, sound and silence?
The bushes and the stones danced on and on;
I walk as if my face would kiss the wind.

* * * * *

I think what I like most about writing centos is that they force you to suggest rather than say. You should try it. I've decided that for my next poem, and it'll have to be over the summer, I'm going to attempt a villanelle! They are insanely difficult, but it's going to be fun! An example is "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night," by Dylan Thomas:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.


Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

* * * * *

*To hear Thomas reading this aloud, see this link. The contrast between the form which is strict, regular and controlled, and its message, which incites the man to "rage against the dying of the light" is striking. It was written about his dying father.

The actions of each small man are placed in contrast to the vastness of universe. The light shed on the world by the wise man is pale in comparison with lightning, and waves produced by the good man disappear in a green bay. Similarly, we are subtly reminded throughout, an old man's rage will be ineffectual in the face of death.